Eventually, it became easier to walk with the wild shadow –
@Revui (Ghost) – draped over him.
At times, he even thought that the steps felt like his own.
Fjall came to the woods of the unfulfilled Winterglade. It was darker here beneath the stalwart canopy, still hours off from dawnlight. The once shrieking wind now whispered in his ears, and his wisteria gaze remained taken by those aurora lights –
his eyes.
Yes, his.
For the sea was a woman, and the sky was neither, but the
wilds reeked terribly of man. And this force was nothing if not
virile – a feral sort of energy that the earth-child both feared and loved at once.
But was this where he was meant to be?
I do not understand, blessed god.
The boy made his way while the ghost lingered. Sometimes the ghost would tug his step askew, or rush as heady wind across his back, but never did it pull in any direction with great force - not for lack of desire, but more a lack of power.
And always, that gleam of green.
When the boy came to the forest there was a lull in the presence that had been imbued upon him; almost a softening, for a few moments. There was a mist shifting between the trees which parted from the boy's path as the will of Revui gusted it back.
No, this... not this, take me home!
The wind pulled at the trees, plucking debris from the forest floor and pelting it at Fjall. HOME!
The shadow of the mountains swallowed up the forest, and the angry voice of the ghost became a shrieking gale.
Fjall was moved as much as he wanted to be moved. He heard and felt what he wanted to hear and feel. And when there was an abeyance of this perceived force, he missed it terribly–
But the voice reached him again! And even though it was angry, he was relieved to hear it.
Him.
The windsong became a shout and a tantrum, and Fjall became small before it, lowering himself to a grovel. He looked to the way the mist parted, and then looked up helplessly.
I do not know the way, my Maker,
he said softly into the banshee wind. He need not raise his voice.
Please, I pray. Show me. Tell me.
Subjugate me!
His body tensed as he felt its immortal coils.
Know me as your subject. This body is yours!
He felt brave – open – before this spirit beast like no other. His lip did not quiver when he thought to speak, and his resolve did not waver as he thought of Him.
I will serve you.
He would worship the valleys, the mountains, the rivers, the earth, and all of the life upon it, if it meant appeasing this spirit enveloping him now.
Where must I go–
what must I do?
Revui's rage made manifest his will, and this is what empowered him the most. The boy was pliant enough but there was only so much the ghost could impart to him; now, becoming enraged, his will grew to such a scale that the presence of Fjall dwindled.
The mountain,
the wind could not name it, and the ghost was too agitated to be specific; he could only think mountain mountain mountain with such urgency that the boy's body would start to stagger with more purpose towards Moonspear, then Moonglow, then back again.
The wind wailed.
Fjall shrunk in on himself and envisioned his own body supplicant, submissive before the shadow of his Maker.
The mountain.
Moonglow came to mind as his yielding feet turned towards the distant moonpack. He found himself wavering— moving past the founding village, towards the omnipresent spire of its first sister-pack, then back towards Moonglow, and back again towards the tower of Moonspear. A curious raven followed the progress of the gilded wolf, who seemed drunk from above.
As the miles fell away beneath his feet, Fjall found the courage to speak more to the wild spirit. O Fearsome One,
he hummed, a hymn. I am your humble vassal. Your steward. Your carrier. I feel you. I hear you. I do as you bid.
The mountain. The mountain. The mountain. I beg for your protection.
He continued to whisper to the spirit, pouring his heart and soul to the divinity that had settled upon his shoulders.